Shaking
by rotorviator
Summary: RenIchiRen. Renji is frustratingly human, but it's not what he thinks, or what he's ever thought. Enter Ichigo, who's more like him than he thinks, and together they desperately need answers, and they need them years ago. WIP
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Here, smuggled over from my other account, after I deleted everything off that. This is somewhat slow-burning, but helpful reviews feed the hungry author-powering flames.~ Seriously, they really do, it's scary. And fun, and warm. Eh, also, the dudes in this may be a little OOC, but that's for a reason, and I'm sure they'll come back to themselves some more soon. :P**

It feels too much like power, sometimes.

You ever get that? Sometimes, (and it happens more often now) I'm just like sitting there, and maybe someone says something, or the music I'm listening to gets to a good bit, and I can just _feel_ it. Kinda, builds up right in the middle of my chest, and I can feel it around my head and it shakes my hands and my shoulders, and my legs wanna move, and move quick- it's frickin' annoying. I can't do anything with it, see? I can't fly like my body tells me it should, I can't move lightning-quick like I want to, and the almost-power, it's like huge-ass explosions should be exploding here, right here in front of me. I want destruction, I want disasters and catastrophes, all by my hand, flames and blood and pillars of light. I can see the school hall, the gym, as rubble around me, I can see myself, lit-up and amazing and (I'm trembling inside) there, I'm rock-solid.

I don't get that though. I'm a biologically normal kid; maybe I'll take up some kinda martial arts one day and get good and, hell, I'd be pretty awesome if I tried. I know that. It wouldn't be the same, though. It couldn't be.

Tcha, I'll do press-ups instead, till I can't move. And then I'll play music so loudly I can't think.

And then everything will be better.

0O0

I wake up at seven and lie there for a while, half-way between sleep and the world. Don't want to get up. Don't want to be here, there, anywhere. Anywhere, except maybe, far from here - that's a place I wouldn't mind going to. I'd wake up there and I wouldn't recognise the scenery outta my window, so I'd hafta get up (I'd be wearing awesome clothes too, I promise you, if I even slept in clothes, which I doubt I would if I could get away with it) and stand by the window, except it wouldn't be a window cause it'd just be like a balcony, thin sliding door between some sweeping landscape and the happy Renji standing in the doorway.

Goddammit! Stupid frigging _day _stretching out in front of me here. I'm desperate, see, this shitty life that I got here, with family like ghosts and not a friend in all my sixteen years. 'Cause, 'pparently I look all scary. I just - shit. I sound so bad, right? I, I, I, I'm this and that and my feelings and poor me, poor lonely me, blah blah. Seriously, just shut the fuck up.

Why does no-one tell me to do that? Pretty lame state of existence when there's no one around even to just tell you to shut the fuck up when you're being a dick and completely deserve it. That's what I need, someone to beat the shit outta me when I get cocky, to talk me down when I start getting all tough-guy and to tell me to man up when I get all sissy and down and shit. People need that, I guess, otherwise they end up like me.

Look, shut your fucking mouth and do something useful. Get up. Get dressed. ..See? I don't even listen to myself, I'm still horizontal, still being a dick. But as long as I'd like to stay here, life drags on. Hair up, brush teeth, put on clothes. Get to school and come back home without having killed anyone. Not as easy as it sounds, but I'll do my best.

There's a kid at school, though. A new kid. My class, my age, and a freak, too. Shorter than me. Ha, squirt. Looks all moody, orange hair, bad attitude, brown eyes, not a bad build. He could probably take down someone about his size pretty easy, but he wouldn't be able to touch me, cause I'm not trained but I'm sure as hell strong and I know how to throw my weight around. He's looking round at each of the students here, and it's weird. He looks at us like he couldn't give a shit, but I get the feeling that he's actually paying pretty close attention, but we're just not interesting enough to hold his gaze.

Then he looks at me, and looks straight at me. Locks eyes, staring, as if he's got every frickin' right to, while the teacher's rattling something off about where he's from (some place somewhere – you seriously expect me t' remember?) and his classes, and he _smiles_ at me. You believe that? He does, stares at me and smiles. A little knowing quirk of a smile, and I'm only slightly worried that he's sussed me out. 'Cause that just wouldn't do, you know? He takes a seat in front of me and the rest of the day passes pretty normally - he doesn't turn around, doesn't talk to me, he's nowhere to be found at lunch, and even come the end of the day he just, slips away. Don't see the bastard.

Bastard he is though, right, cause there's something about him that pisses me off. Sets me on edge, fists clenched, frowning, at the thought. Maybe it's that smirk, maybe his hair, maybe how I don't know shit about him. He moves like he knows how to move, like how people say they can tell dancers apart by the way they walk? The more I watch the guy over the next few days (forgot his name, not important) the more uneasy I get. It's just. Just, hard to explain. But I feel like maybe I shouldn't challenge him to a fight if I get bored. I shouldn't take the piss outta him, or push him around. I wanna keep an eye out for him, even, see what he does. See if he's as crazy as he seems. Wouldn't surprise me at all if he turned out to be batshit crazy, in all honesty.

What can you do, eh? Today he speaks to me. Fuck, I sound like a lovesick girl. But he does; Ginger turns round and smirks at me again.

"What're you doing at lunch?" He says. I look at him and arch an eyebrow, all cool-like.

"Sitting outside, rain or no. Nothing exciting."

"Right, right." And he turns back and continues with his work. I sit there a little confused. At lunch, he disappears again, and the weather lets me hang around outside, under my usual tree. I'm pretty chilled, as per the norm, but I keep my eyes peeled. Ain't that a stupid expression? Makes me think of actual eyeballs actually being peeled, and I'm not squeamish or shit but that's pretty damn gross. 'Specially while I'm eating my lunch, come on.

I try t' think about other things.

0O0

Ginger tells me his name is Ichigo. 'Kay, well, whatever. He's still full-on ginger, so I was never really _wrong_. And he's still a creepy bastard, that hasn't changed. He doesn't talk much. And most of the other kids avoid him; I don't blame them, I figured out why he's so creepy, and I think it's cause he's so damn sure of himself. It's menacing as fuck. Like some bad-ass aura (not that I really believe in that shit, not properly) that howls, look at me! I'm frickin' strong, I could rip you apart as soon's look at you! Now stop staring at me, that's enough, piss off.

I don't blame 'em for backing off.

..I, on the other hand, have never claimed to pay much attention to that subtle kinda crap, so I sit in class with one headphone in my ear, barely-half-listening to whatever anyone's saying, but if Gi- Ichigo talks to me, I listen. I'm not polite, like, to anyone, ever, though. Ever. What do you take me for?

0O0

I'm on my hundred-and-seventy-sixth consecutive sit-up when the phone rings. I ignore it, no-one ever rings me. It stops, then starts again. I growl, and pick it up, and growl again into the phone. He answers.

"Yo."

"Ginger? The hell, you don't even have my number! And what the fuck d'you think you're doing, I was busy, stupi-"

"Not interested in whatever weird things you do on your own. And my name is Ichigo, idiot, you can't even talk about hair, pineapple-freak-"

"It's Renji! _Renji! _I bear no frickin' resemblance to a pineapple, dumbass! Shut the hell up, or hang up, or whatever-"

"-How strong are you?"

That kinda knocks me for six.

"Stronger than you, I bet."

"Wow.~ You think so?"

I can hear the sarcasm in his voice, loud and clear.

"'Course, 'course. I mean, no offence, but you're a shrimp. Like, tiny, compared to me. I'd whip your ass before you could get close enough to bite my ankles. It's just like that."

(It's gonna strike me later that that was probably a really stupid thing of me to say.)

"Tough guy, sure. You wanna try it anyway? Maybe I'll surprise you."

There's an edge in his voice. He's still light, like he's playing with me, but something tells me he actually halfway knows what he's talking about.

"See, I dunno if that's fair. Me being all tall and strong and manly and such. You think you can compete, hell, sure. When and where?"

"It's not late, so... In an hour, by the field at the end of your road?"

"Don't get too nervous," I say, and put the phone down. I stare at it for a few moments, wonder briefly how he got my number, how he knows where 'my road' is, and why the fuck he's challenging me to a fight. One option, only; I'll fight him. I warm up, taking my time, and head out a little late. Hey, it's what I do.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: I own zip, sadly. I'm eating some seriously nice grapes right now, but that's pretty much the extent of my worldly wealth. Reviewage or validation of any sort makes me hugely joyful. **

**:D**

It's beautiful outside. And don't give me that look, just 'cause I look all tough and hard with my hair and tattoos and muscle doesn't mean I can't have a heart. Or a good eye. I notice things like this. Why shouldn't I, huh?

It is pretty nice out here, though. Early evening, so there's a kinda mist over everything, and the shadows are all gone 'cause the sun's low and everything's lit up and gold. And green. And pink, and peach, and blue. The road he means is one that stretches off past the houses of my street, into sweeping fields and a gaping huge sky, just a thin line of gravel and shitloads of tall grass and wildflowers, everywhere. Ichigo's waiting in a clearing, where the grass ain't much more than stubble in a big circle. He looks cool, to be honest, and almost makes me wish I'd got here earlier so I could be alone and dark and badass with the sun plunging into the horizon behind me. He lifts a hand in greeting, and starts to explain the rules.

"I'm not big on rules, but I don't wanna die," (I'm kinda flattered with how he accepts that I could do something like that), "but more importantly, the real danger here is that you'll die. My foot slips, fatal injury, internal bleeding, and bam, no more pineapple."

Fuck that, right away. I draw myself up to my full height and look down at the ginger prick. He isn't that much shorter than I am, but it's enough. Give an inch, take a few miles, whatever the hell it is.

"'Kay, 'kay, you tell yourself I'm in danger. I'd be more worried if I were you, midget, in case I step on you by accident. Or maybe you'll win when I'm momentarily blinded by your hair. Who knows?"

…

"Behind you, baka."

His voice is coming from just below my right ear.

What?

I hear a little huff of breath and something slams fucking hard into my kidney (or roundabouts where you expect your kidney to be), but it must be some important organ because that hurts, that _hurts_, so _bad_, and I just about turn round before he's down by my feet and he slams his elbow into the back of my knee and I stumble – he throws my feet out from underneath me and I go flying. Flying, then, face-planting directly into the semi-frozen ground.

Shit shit shit.

I heave up into a crouch and for some reason I'm breathing hard. 'Cause I'm angry, I guess. Or winded.

"Stupid little fu-" And suddenly I've lunged to the side just in time to avoid a solid foot to the collar-bone (which I know would have broken it, instantly, I ain't thick) and I throw myself back onto the ground and roll onto my front as he pivots on one leg and the other hurtles through the air millimetres away from where my skull used to be. I push myself up as I sense him move back and finally I'm standing, facing Ichigo. He doesn't even look tired.

He's looking straight at me, cracking a funny little grin that shows his teeth and he looks as though he hasn't even moved. And that pisses me right off. I don't take that – I don't take this sort of shit, and I stare straight back at him, straight into those wide, smiling brown eyes, and launch myself into his face.

With my fist.

It connects. Aha! But, he turns his head at the last second and so I'm dragging my fist across the side of his cheekbone, the bitch, and not doing any serious damage like, you know, breaking his nose or knocking out teeth or whatever. He shifts to the other side of me that's left completely stark-wide totally open –goddamn moron, Renji, that's what you are- and punches _me_, in the face, and the force of it whips my head round and something cracks in my neck that I swear, isn't meant to.

I stagger. Not weakly, in a cool way. But I still stagger. Then I keep staggering, just a little more than I need to, and sway towards the ground just a little more than I really would, and use every ounce of force I can get to bring my leg slicing up and my foot swinging wildly into his ribcage at the last second. This time I do something. He's knocked backwards, and something flickers over his face before he breaks out another cocky grin and regains his balance.

"As I was saying," He says, in a completely steady voice. I roll my eyes. Show-off. "The rules. Number one, don't leave the circle. Number two, fight like you mean it and stop fucking around. Number three, try to kill me. Hate me. Do whatever, but do it like a man. Right now.." He pauses, looks me up and down, and snarls, "you're doing a shit impression of one."

I snarl right back at him. Well. That settles it, I guess. That dick, that total dick, who has no right to say that, no right to talk shit like that to me, he wants a good time? I'll show him one, I'll show him a fucking good time. Ginger is going _down_.

He takes a few careful steps back and rolls his head back. Eyes invisible in the setting sun.

"Come get me, Renji."

Did I mention he's going down?

The sun slips under the grass. The sky is colour-struck, pinks and oranges and yellows tearing across the horizon. Above us, it's already dark, and I can smell the night on the cool air, like some approaching threat, some monster. And Ichigo's standing there in front of me, all soft-edged and hard-eyed in the centre of the clearing. There's air all around us. There's monsters on the wind. This guy's tough, and I hafta do somethin', I hafta think, hafta figure this shit out somehow. Try to kill me, he said. Baka! He says these stupid things, and I'm meant to listen? I'm not-

Ah. He's waiting for me to make a move. I breathe in, feel my ribcage expand, support the breath, and hurl myself towards him. I slip to the right, feint like a bitch, fist to his gut – blocked – his hand cuts towards my head, I side-step and try to get behind him (I've never fought properly before like this I've never fucking done this what the fuck do I think I'm doing) and before I can swing a limb back to knock him to the ground he grabs one of mine and twists me round into an arm-lock. A fucking _painful_ one, I can't move at all, but I sure as hell try, and flail and struggle until he grabs both my wrists and tugs me up so I'm standing facing him, my wrists in his hands, looking straight at him, and his mouth quirks and he shoves his foot into my stomach.

I flail more, but backwards. Quickly, 'cause that got me good, lucky prick. You know what he could do? He could run up to me, just one or two long strides, and knock me out clean. One good shot and I'd be down. I've fought people, but not like, like this. It's intense like nothing was before.  
Some brain-dead thug who wants to feel big? He'll barely see me move before it's all over. But this guy, this guy.

I don't know what the hell to do. I'm not giving in, screw that. And I'm not gonna lose, so what then? What now? And then, then it happens, the greatness, the reality, the light; I can feel it, suddenly; the almost-power. It starts slow and deep but then I'm breathing hard and it's burning up my chest like my heart's soaked in gasoline, my arms, my legs, my shoulders are trembling like they gotta _move_. I can feel myself trembling and my face twisting, and it's fucking amazing! It's _fucking incredible!_

I raise my head to look at him. There's some crazy-ass wide smile stretching across my face that I can't stop because, ah, it feels so good! There's strength shivering right into my fingertips, there's air underneath my feet, something lifting me up and pushing me forward, and I've slammed Ginger one hell of a punch in the mouth without even planning to. Shock ripples over his face, as his lip splits wide and blood trickles down his chin, but before I can think I drop into a half-crouch and twist and thrust my elbow into his abdomen, and I'm immediately at his back, so I do something weird with my arms and hurl him backwards.

Over my shoulder.

It's _immense_.

I don't even know what the hell I'm doing.

I lean down and pin him where he lies, and I still seem to be smiling like a frickin' psychopath, but I don't care, I couldn't give a shit, because I am so, so awesome right now. My knuckles're bleeding 'cause of his teeth, and I think I've strained something in that completely brilliant throw-thing I just did, but it doesn't feel like pain. It feels refreshing. Like when you walk in rain and it reminds you you're alive. This is that. I'm alive. So alive.

"That's a little better, pineapple." He says, and he runs his tongue over his torn lip. His eyes are bright (not as bright as mine right now, I bet, I feel like I'm glowing) and his expression is almost eager. There's something in it, something relieved, something anticipatory. Something, predatory. I'm so close I can smell the blood he's spilt. That I've spilt. Whatever.

"Renji!" I say, "_Renji_ is the name of the incredibly cool guy who just owned you, idiot, remember it-"

Ginger smashes his head up into mine. Direct hit, goddamn fuckin' freak! I howl in pain, I have every frickin' right to, and roll off him, tryin' to massage the agony away. I don't even notice I'm muttering under my breath 'til Ichigo's standing next to me and, reaching out, flicks the top of my head with his finger and thumb.

"Bastard!" I say, wounded. 'Cause that's what he is. And what I am, which is wounded. 'Cause of the bastard. Yeah.

"Try harder next time. But, eh, could've been worse. Don't skip school tomorrow, or I'll hunt you down and break your legs." He drags his words out a little, and his voice is deeper than normal, by just a bit.

He strolls off. It's dark. I sit up, and try to breathe in deep, check I'm not too badly hurt. I barely see him go.

0O0

School the day after is boring as hell. Oh? I'm lying? How annoying, I'm that transparent?

It's interesting, 'kay. Ichigo is in; early, too. He's in his seat long before I get to mine, and I made an actual effort to be there way before first bell. There's an ache in the top of my back, right across my shoulders and the back of my neck. Permanent headache. Twinges and bruises everywhere else, it feels like, and I growl at everyone who tries to talk to me.

Ichigo just leans back in his seat and turns to me and raises an eyebrow.

"Take a few of these," he says, and tosses me a small bottle that rattles, with a skull-and-crossbones on the front.

"Wow, Ginger. If you wanted me done in so much, why not just finish the job yesterday?"

He doesn't answer me, just gets out of his chair and wanders to the back of the classroom on the pretence of picking up a book. On the way back, he slaps me heartily on the shoulder and digs his fingers in, just briefly. I hiss, loudly, at the angry throb that follows. He plays dirty, eh?

"Thought so. Right, right, though. If I really wanted to kill you, I'd've done it a very, very long time ago. Take those, one each hour, and you'll be on decent form for tonight."

"For tonight? Sadistic jerk, aren'tcha? What the hell do you think you're doing, training me up?" I'm outright staring at him. He's staring right back. Our eyes burn into each others'. He frowns, tilts his head a little to the side, sighs.

"'Course, Renji. What else?"

First bell goes. It feels like it's drilling through my skull.

I don't talk to him again for the rest of the day.

I watch him, though, closer than I've ever watched a thing in my life.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Yay, more, more. This may very well be riddled with inconsistencies and errors, 'cause after the eighth time of re-reading it all the words kinda blur together. Not my favourite chapter, but I hope you enjoy! Lemme know if you do. ;D**

I get beat up that night. Bad, too; Ichigo goes way harsh on me and I can't even get outta bed the next morning, so I don't make it to school. I just lie there, aching like hell and trying to sleep, until the sun's high and glimmerin' through my window and I figure I should get some lunch. The house is empty, as always. My family? They could be dead, for all I know. We don't get along, they're travellin' somewhere, so as long as there's money in my account every month I'm not bothered - I got freedom this way. Relatively speakin'.

I gingerly (ha, no pun intended) throw together some pasta-type-dish and sit carefully on the couch, feeling kinda forlorn. Feeling kinda like absolute shit, in all honesty. It's a nice enough day, though, and after I've eaten and the dish's tossed awkwardly onto the floor I ain't got nothin' to do, not that I can move much anyway, so I just arrange myself horizontal on the couch, and think, and doze. The house is comfortably warm and the smell of herbs and sauce lingers, and I should by all rights be content.

Damn.

I lazily think over the past few days over in my head. It's been interesting, I guess, and I replay the fight that happened the night before last, the almost-power that let me get one over on Ginger. Ichigo. Ginger, Ichigo, eh. My thoughts swim around the subject of him for a while, 'cause it stops me thinkin' about anything else that I shouldn't be thinking about. I don't know whether I should be thinking about Ichigo or not, but. Che, but when did that kinda thinking get me anywhere?

...Wonder if there are any of those pills left? They were good, actually, they kept me going and got rid of the aches, and the bruises just, went. Huh. Weird.

A motorbike chugs past the front window. A bird calls. Someone shrieks a few streets away, and a helicopter thrums on high. I don't realise I've fallen asleep till someone hammers so hard at the door I can practically hear the wood splinter, and, whichever jackass this is, I swear, whatever they're selling, I'm gonna-

"You don't look so happy, pineapple." He looks at me with his head cocked to one side. "You gonna let me in? I'm tired. And you look like you're barely staying upright, huh?"

Much as it pisses me off to say, he's right, and he grabs my upper arm and hauls me up just as I unwillingly start my journey floorwards.

"If you hadn't turned up," I growl, "I'd be asleep right now and you wouldn't even hafta help me up, I'd be fine.."

"Yeah, yeah, shut it," he says, as he manoeuvres me back towards the couch. I snatch my arm outta his grip and straight away fall messily on the cushions. He lowers himself onto the chair opposite me and looks at me carefully.

I am fucking exhausted. I'm sprawled there and I'm damn comfortable if I think past the pain, my eyelids won't stay up, and Ginger's just there. I don't even give a shit, anymore. The room's all gold and pink hues and dim light and a glow through my closed eyes, and I shouldn't be this relaxed, shouldn't feel right like this but it's so warm here, so soft, and it feels – feels a little like I'm safe, here –

0O0

Dawn. Day-fuckin'-break, and here I am, and Ichigo is slumped fast-asleep in the chair across from me. Shit, but his neck's at a weird angle, that can't be comfortable. I re-arrange myself so I'm half-sitting-up and look 'round me. My shoulders are – fuck! My hair! I try an' put it up, musta fallen out the ponytail in my sleep and the tie's gotta be _somewhere_, and I can't actually move my arms up enough anyway, but I try for the life of me and end up hissing through my teeth at the pain coursing through my shoulders.

Ichigo moans a little. I tense, every muscle of me, and slowly turn my head to look at him. There's a shadow over his face, like he's having a bad dream, or maybe he just always looks like that and I only just noticed. It strikes me, kinda oddly, that I've probably seen him smile more than most other people. Like, at school, he never smiles. Not ever, but he does that weird smirk thing to me. And he has actually smiled. At me, or near me, to me, whatever. Even if it was right before he beat the shit outta me or some such; still counts, still counts.

Che, this is annoying. I'm still real quiet, frozen in place. He shifts, wakes, and rubs at his forehead with the heel of his hand. His eyes are heavy-lidded and in this soft light they look huge. They gaze straight at me. I must look like a frickin' moron, stuck in place, staring at him with my mouth a little open and my hair down (dammit, dammit).

"That's lame," he frowns, and tilts his head, "I can't call you pineapple, now." He yawns.

'Kay, he does ask for it.

"Maybe," I begin slowly, "you shouldn't have beat the shit out me so bad I can't move my limbs, _bastard_."

"Asking for another fight, even so early, huh? You need the shit beatin' outta you again, that it?" The words are harsh but there's something light pulling at the corner of his mouth.

"If I could move, you'd be on the floor right now. Cryin'."

"If you could move; oh, which you can't, so dream on."

I glare at him, and fall back so I'm sitting, but propped up some. I don't feel so tired. Something like, what, fourteen hours of sleep, musta done some good. Ichigo stands from the chair (he doesn't heave himself up, or complain, or look stiff at all, though he's gotta be) and wanders into the kitchen, hands in his back pockets. Wait. ..His back pockets?

"Asshole!" I yell, "Those are _my_ jeans!" I point an anguished finger, "I like my clothes, I like them being my clothes, don't appreciate them being stolen by some scary-haired short kid who-"

"Shut the hell up! 'Scary-haired short kid' owns your ass, if you don't remember, and 'short kid' actually bothered to give a shit about you, so stop complaining!" Ichigo turns round, and he opens the fridge with a slightly apprehensive expression on his face.

"I saw that face. Don't be scared, Ginger, I can read best-before dates, 'kay?" I scowl. He raises an eyebrow, pulls a face as he gropes in the very back, and his hand comes into contact with something decidedly nasty as fuck, and holds up some unidentifiable hunk of something-or-other I may, may have left and tried very hard to forget about. I scowl more.

"Not expiration dates, though, I guess," is all he says, throws the burgeoning life-form in the garbage, and then he makes us breakfast. The whole experience is fuckin' surreal, if I'm honest. He pads around my kitchen like he's lived here longer than me, reaching into the right cupboards and sliding open the right drawers, humming a little under his breath as he moves. The jea- _my_ jeans, are too big for him, and he's threaded cloth through the loops as a makeshift belt, but he still has t' keep tugging them a little higher on his hips every few minutes.

What I mean to say is, I'll be pretty relieved when it's over, but I hafta say, he ain't a bad cook.

..What am I, domesticated, now?

We eat in silence. Sullen, on my part, smug, on his.

"What's with you?" I say, when we're done and the dishes have been pushed into the sink to be long-forgotten.

Ichigo raises an eyebrow. "What's with me..?"

"What are you doing – all of, _this_," I motion with the hand that hurts a little less, to try'n encompass all this weird shit. Unusual shit. Shit that doesn't happen to me, ever. This is twisting things and warping things and turning my mind against me, here. I need an explanation. Come on, Ginger, humour me.

"_This._ You mean, what, me turning up and talking t'you and calling you and kicking your ass and then randomly coming to your house and spending the night and stealing your jeans?" He sounds amused more than anything else. Like he knew I'd ask this and I've played straight into his hands and he's lovin' it. I just kinda stretch, and watch him, 'cause he looks like he's gonna answer his own question.

After a minute, maybe, of quiet, he sighs, leans back, and raises a hand to rub at the back of his neck. He's frowning. Opens and closes his mouth a few times, then bends forward and rests his elbows on his knees so we're eye-to-eye over the coffee table.

"So, yeah," he starts, "you got a choice here. I can lie to you, and everything will be fine and we can be, eh, whatever, or I can tell you the truth, and everything will become immensely fucked up, pretty much straight away. You're free to choose." There's a moment, a pause, when he looks young and open and scared shitless, like there's caverns behind his eyes, and then I figure what to say and I open my mouth and Ichigo's resolute once more.

What's with him?

"Ah," I consider. "Well. I can't be all coward now, right? Spill. Tell. Speak," I grin, and wave my hand airily, "fuck things up as spectacularly as you want. Go 'head, Ichigo, make my day. Never liked lies so much, hell no."

A thought strikes me before he can begin. I frown.

"But first, why're you wearing my jeans?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Whew. Had a busy/unhelpful few days. ...Never thought I'd have time to post this, let alone write it. But, it's here, and I still don't own Bleach. Sad times, sad times. I wanna know whatchu people think of the story so far! Like it? Say. :D**

He downright scowls at me, and looks askance into the corner of the room, eyes lowered. He brings a hand up to the side of his neck, a self-conscious gesture. I find it kinda funny, an' try not to grin.

"What? I'm not even gonna get them dirty, but you started freaking out like I'd cut off all your hair in your sleep-" He pauses, here, and a thoughtful look creeps onto his face.

I feel myself pale. "You even fucking think about that, and I swear, I'll do something so awful, so goddamn terrible, you'll not wanna live another minute longer."

He smirks at me tiredly. "And now, I'm terrified."

"As you should be, bastard."

He holds his hands up in response, don't-shoot style, and leans back in his (my!) chair, eyes half-shut and legs spread wide. His eyes sink closed, and he starts breathing slower, and I think for a few moments that he's gone back to sleep, 'til I figure maybe, just maybe, he's tryin'ta put off what he's got to say.

Weird. I've never been much good at this kinda people-readin' thing before.

Eventually, he comes to and fixes his eyes on mine, hard and dark.

"This is messed-up," he mutters. "This is what I know. We're not meant to be here. We're not meant to be like this. There's a guy who lives a ways from here, owns a shop, who knows about this stuff, who knows more than he lets on, too. I only know what he wants me to know, and what I remember. Which is pretty much nothing. Basically, we're mistakes." A pause. "Screw-ups, anomalies, whatever you wanna call it."

"The hell d'ya mean? What're you - what're you talking about?"

"Renji." He leans forwards. "Tell me about your family."

I frown, and say, "They're away. Travellin'." Didn't I mention that? "Ah, they just give me money every month, don't even get a postcard though-"

"No, that's not quite what I meant." He thrusts a hand through his hair. He seems pissed off. Did I answer wrong? "What's your dad's first name?"

What a weird question. Huh. But hey, my dad's name's - ah?

"It's. It's, I mean, it's, his name's, his name is..." I stop. I wanna keep talking but there's nothing I can say. I scrabble around in my head for the answer. It doesn't come. I don't know. No clue. Aren't people supposed to know this kinda thing? I think, I think, and I scour my brain for any clue, any reaction or reflex to tell me I'm just stressed, or under pressure, and there's a good reason I don' know. 'Cause there's gotta be one. My dad, my dad; come on, dammit, come on! Please, let there be a name, please, please, I'll know something, please - I can't breathe, I can't stay still -

"Calm _down_, Renji!" He's got his hands either side of my face, suddenly, like he's tryin' to hold me together. "Breathe, moron, breathe. It's okay. I'm shit-scared too, because I'm the same, okay? We're in the same boat here. Now chill. Calm the fuck down." His hands are warm, a little unsteady, as if I'm fragile. I try and concentrate on the feel of them, nothing but them.

"Why don't I know?" I'm freaking out, my hands trembling like hummingbirds at my sides, an' it's like something's grasping my throat, tight. _Dammit!_ "I know this, I..."

"You don't," is all he says, and lowers his hands. "Neither do I, 'kay?"

A thought comes to me, and I could laugh at how fuckin' banal it is.

"I need a goddamn drink," I say, and stumble into the kitchen. "You want somethin' too?" He gives a little sound that could be a laugh, or a snort. He sounds weak.

"Water's good." He waits as I pour us each a glass of water, glasses slipping out of my grip as I use the tap, water spilling over, sloshing everywhere, and then he starts when I've sat back down.

"I guess you're thinking somethin' like, 'but I've always felt something was weird, before.. There's always been something odd, like this life's not quite right, maybe it's just me..' Forget that, Renji. Maybe you thought it was some teenage thing. Forget that shit, too. There's no 'before', with us. There's no 'always', or 'been', or 'was', you see that now?"

I'm tryin' to listen but I don't want to. Part a' me wants to jump up and run like hell or slam my head into the wall or hit somethin' so hard I pass out.

"Ah."

"Nothing of us _exists,_ Renji. Our 'family' doesn't exist. Not here, anyway. There's no 'me'."

"Not here? What, we got family elsewhere? Then what the fuck is up with us here? Explain, for fuck's _sake, _explain!" I tower over him when I stand, casting shadow, and I don't even realise I've grabbed his collar and he's face-to-face with me, despite the height difference, until he makes a harsh, strangled noise, and I notice I've got the fabric of his t-shirt twisted around his neck while he's pretty much off the ground.

"Shit," I manage, "shit, I'm sorry," hastily all-but-droppin' the guy, "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay," he winces, rubbing his throat. "Just," a cough, "there're smarter ways to get a point across, dumbass."

"Says the person who's just told me straight-on that I don't exist?" Now I snort, and relief begins to seep into me, a tremulous, weird feeling. Feels a little like I'll be okay. Maybe.

0O0

Well, yeah, I've got a lodger, now. A really crappy lodger who doesn't pay jack-shit, but, then again, isn't a completely awful cook, can clean up his own mess, is annoying, but not all loud and noisy, and - and, yeah.

I think it probably started a while after he left that day; he left 'bout an hour before sunset, and we'd talked, and talked, 'bout everything under the sun, but we could only go on for so long about - about the weird shit. The stuff he mentioned. He's got a plan, he says, and I'm just gonna hope he knows what the hell he's doing. I don't feel so good being on my own, now, though. 'Cause then, I'm alone with my thoughts, and just my thoughts, and they start ta whisper things. Y'know?

They make me try an' think of things I don't know. They make me try an' recall dates, and experiences, and names, and places, and it _hurts_ to do that. So I stop. Not just a headache hurt, either, it's like a drumming pain, a damning pain, smack in the middle of my chest, an' it makes me think there's something burning there. There's something ablaze, in my soul.

Maybe there is. But I'd be the last to know, somehow.

So, so yeah. It's late, and I'm lyin' in bed, the morning-after-the-evening-he-left, but sleep won't come. It's got to about two am, when the window slides open and I lose it. Completely. I don't yell out, but Ichigo insists I did, bastard. I didn't. The window slides open more, nearly silently, I continue to completely frickin' lose it, Ichigo steps in cool as anythin', huge sports bag slung over his shoulder like it weighs nothing.

"Freak! The hell! It's two in the morning, go home!"

"Whadya mean? This place is just as much of a home as my place. More so, I'd say."

"-came in through the frigging _window_, too, scared the shit outta me!"

"No," he says, sarcastic jerk, "I wouldn't do that to you, why would I do a thing like that? Anyhow, I'm going to bed, night."

"Going? Goin' where, exactly? This is my house, my beds, my-" and I don't finish my sentence before he's slunk outta my room, clutching his bag, and I hear him head into the spare bedroom. Door closes, and that's it. He's down before me the next morning, and neither of us think to care about school, 'cause really, would you, in this situation? The morning's young yet, and I notice something as I come downstairs. First, I think how frickin' strange it is to come down to someone else already in your kitchen. That's a new one. Well, as new as things get for me, which is pretty new, I guess.

Did I mention? There's the clothes thing. That's a little strange. I don't mind, y'know, that's the odd thing. I come downstairs, and he's throwing together something breakfast-like that smells damn good and after a few minutes I click in that he's wearing that soft grey t-shirt I got ages ago. That I think I got ages ago. Whatever.

It's too big for him and hangs worn across his shoulders, the fabric falling past the waistband of his sweatpants, and he looks young, and I look for too long. I don't even mind so much. I don't even yell at him for it, now. It's kinda nice. Seems like there's two of us in the world, and I won't argue with that. Hell no.

"So," he says, turning round to face me, wielding a wooden spoon in one hand like some delinquent ginger chef, "get ready to train. We work after breakfast, every day, and a week from now we're moving out, and finding that guy I talked about. Don't know about you, but I want some goddamn answers."

See? Sounds like a plan.


End file.
